My search ended two floors below mine. The room was shared by a couple guys who apparently had never been taught how to keep their place clean. I cringed with every dirty shirt I had to move to see what was underneath. The backpack — an honest-to-God hiker-type backpack — was on the floor of the closet buried under several jackets and a duffel bag full of baseball gear. There was a tag on the strap identifying it as belonging to JEROME LARSON. I’ve probably seen him around, but I don’t know the name. I am, however, very thankful that he decided he didn’t need the pack over Christmas. I found a bonus, too. A compact sleeping bag that looks like it’s meant to work in some pretty harsh weather. Of course, maybe that’s a little wishful thinking.
Whatever the case, thanks, Jerome.
For clothing, I went through everything that had been left behind by the girls on my floor, and gathered the best of the lot that fit me — thermal underwear, T-shirts, pants, sweaters, gloves, caps. There was too much to carry, so I ended up having to pare down quite a bit.
Food was next. I decided to only carry enough for three days at a time. I figure it should be easy to find something to eat along the way. Any store or restaurant or house I pass will likely have plenty of canned stuff I can pick through as needed.
After the food there were several small things: toothbrush and toothpaste, soap, deodorant (I went back and forth on that but decided I would wear it for myself if no one else), brush, flashlight, matches, and a pocketknife I found sitting on Norman Gleason’s dresser. I also took Kaylee’s Sorel boots. They’re much better than anything I have.
I can’t lie and say I didn’t wish I’d found a gun. I know, I know. Pre-Sage Flu, a gun on campus — in my very building — would have scared the crap out of me and pretty much everyone else. I probably would have been the first calling for the gun owner’s expulsion. Now I wish somebody had smuggled one in.
Before I finished packing, I made one final look around, in case I found something that might be useful. The only thing I ended up adding was a picture Patty had in her room of the two of us and Josh and Kaylee. I know Josh is dead. When I called his phone and the woman who answered — maybe his mother or sister, I’m not sure — said he wasn’t with us anymore, I hadn’t realized what she’d meant, but it wasn’t long before I pieced it together. I don’t know about Patty or Kaylee, though. I guess they’re probably dead, too, but I hope not.
So that’s pretty much where I am. My plan is to head south to the Beltline Highway, and take that east to I-90. From there I can take the interstate all the way to Chicago. If I find roads clear enough, I’ll see if I can find a car I can use. Who knows? Maybe I’ll run into someone who can give me a ride. I know I’m supposed to be careful about exposure to others, but exposure to the elements isn’t going to be all that great, either. Guess I’ll play that one by ear.
Not sure how far I’ll get today. The sun goes down pretty early, and there’s no way I’m going to be walking after dark.
I’ll write again when I stop.
17
The three main communication workstations had been manned nonstop all morning. Several of the stations in the mobile comm trucks the Resistance had brought from Montana were also in use. Now that most of the so-called survival stations around the world had opened, the Resistance’s efforts to save what was left of humanity had gone into overdrive.
Leon and the other communication coordinators knew they wouldn’t be able to save everyone, but they would try. The biggest obstacle they were facing was convincing those who were in traveling range of a survival station to not go there. The survivors were desperate for anything that seemed like a way out of the horror, and Project Eden’s UN ploy filled that void perfectly. Of course, the Project had known that from the beginning, and had carefully planned out this phase.
Where Resistance coordinators could, they sent in teams, armed not only with proof that the UN did not exist anymore, but, more importantly, with vaccine. This personal touch worked more times than not, but there were still groups and individuals who would not listen to what the Resistance had to say and headed for the stations anyway.
By noon, Leon was in contact with fourteen different groups, but the one that interested him most was Jabala’s. She and her friends had apparently figured out on their own that the survival stations were false fronts for something more sinister. How, exactly, still wasn’t clear, but he felt particularly connected to them, and wanted to make sure they were all right.
The girl had told him to wait an hour before calling back, but he figured fifty-six minutes was close enough and input her number again. Though the computer indicated the call had connected after the third ring, he could hear nothing from the other end.
“Hello?” he said.
No, not nothing. Breathing, and…something else. A faint, rhythmic tapping sound.
“Jabala?”
“Five minutes,” Jabala said, her voice a whispered rush.
The line went dead.
Leon stared at the screen. What was going on? Was she in danger?
He checked the clock to note exactly when he could call back.
At the station next to him, Crystal was saying. “Uh-huh…okay…yes, you’re authorized. Keep us informed.”
As she was clicking off, the door opened and Rachel walked in.
“How’s everything going?” Rachel asked.
“Just got off with our people in Panama,” Crystal said. “Their team in Belize is getting bogged down. Apparently there are several pockets of survivors, but getting to each is proving difficult.”
“I’m sure they’re doing the best they can.”
“Rachel, it’s the same team that’s scheduled to visit that large group in Costa Rica tomorrow morning. No way they can make it now.”
“How soon?”
“At least another day. Maybe two.”
“When did Project Eden say they’d return to the island?”
“Going by the radio conversation we intercepted, could be anytime in the next forty-eight hours or so.”
“No way to rearrange our people?”
“The team’s in the field, away from the plane. Even if we order them back, it’d still be a day and a half until they get to the base, load up again, and go to Costa Rica.”
“No alternatives?”
“The real problem isn’t the medical team or aircraft, it’s the pilots. Panama has an extra seaplane sitting there, and there’s a med team in Guadalajara that just finished up, but no one to pick them up or fly them to Costa Rica.”
Rachel closed her eyes and rubbed a hand across her forehead. “We can’t afford to lose anyone,” she said in a low voice probably meant more for herself than anyone. She looked at Crystal again. “Do what you can. As soon as a flight team becomes available, send it.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Rachel switched her attention to Leon. “You look…concerned.”
He hesitated a moment before saying, “I am.” He explained what had been going on with the group in India. When he finished, he glanced at the clock. “It’s actually time for me to call them again.”
“Then do it. And please put it on speaker.”
This time the call was answered on the first ring.
“Leon?” Jabala asked.
“Jabala, are you okay? You sounded—”